


Tea for Two

by borichu



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Dom/sub, F/F, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Secret Relationship, Sexual Coercion, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-18 06:48:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28739013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/borichu/pseuds/borichu
Summary: Laila Law-Giver, Jarl of the Rift, is a woman of power and influence who answers to nobody — except when summoned by Maven Black-Briar to secret tea-room trysts.
Relationships: Maven Black-Briar/Laila Law-Giver
Comments: 14
Kudos: 23





	Tea for Two

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wanda von dunayev (wandavon)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wandavon/gifts).



> \- who loves and appreciates this pairing more than anyone else.
> 
> Many thanks to [Tarangifer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarangifer/) for beta reading and advice.

_How did it come to this?_ Laila wonders, for at least the hundredth time.

She holds between her fingers a slip of paper. Just a simple note — bland and innocuous as the vile porridge she now has to choke down every morning — barely worth the paper, ink and time it cost to write. An invitation to a meeting, to discuss taxes on mead. Mundane. Ordinary. Dull.

Or so it would appear to everyone else, at least. Laila Law-Giver knows it for what it is: a summons. And while there might perhaps be mead at this … _meeting_ , there will certainly be no talk of taxes.

She crushes the slip of paper inside her fist. No. She is not some courtesan, to come running at a moment’s notice. _She_ is the Jarl. _She_ is the one who issues a summons, and has others come running to _her_.

Her fist clenches tighter, and she feels the paper grow damp and yielding from her sweat. She digs her fingers in, pushing until her fingernails tear through words and press into flesh. Still she squeezes, and does her utmost not to imagine her fingernails digging into an entirely different flesh, just as yielding as the paper but not quite so easily torn …

“My Jarl?”

She comes back to herself with a start.

“Fine. Tell Maven I’ll be there within the hour. No, actually. Make it two.” The paper is disintegrating in her hand. She feels a small stab of triumph at her meagre victory, followed by an immediate rush of scorn. She is Jarl of the Rift, one of the most important women in Skyrim, and she feels _proud_ for delaying a subject’s summons by an _hour_?

Worse still is the knowledge that no matter what she just said to that runner, she will be at Black-Briar Manor at the precise time Maven penned.

She wipes the mess of congealed paper and sweat onto her napkin. How did it come to this, indeed.

* * *

Fifty-seven minutes later she is at Maven’s front door, and has already been waiting for four. She knows this so precisely because of the strange little bronze timepiece strapped to her wrist; a new invention based on some kind of old Dwemer technology. It’s one of the most valuable things she owns — barely a handful can be found in all of Skyrim, and she delights in displaying the beautiful, intricate piece of ornamental machinery to all and sundry. An extravagant luxury indeed. Who could afford to toss away so much coin on a device to precisely measure time, when almost nobody else in the province uses anything more accurate than the sun?

It was a gift from Maven. A trinket for her favoured pet; and a reminder. Laila could never have afforded such a thing herself. She wears the beautiful device only because Maven wishes her to — and because Maven will not suffer tardiness. At times like this her delight in her treasure becomes edged with distaste, like the lingering bitterness left by a mug of expensive chocolate.

As Laila waits in the sticky Riften air, knowing that Maven had undoubtedly been made aware of her presence almost as soon as she first knocked, she almost longs to fling the lovely timepiece into the canal. She knows she will not, though. Just as she knows she won’t ignore Maven’s summons, or complain at being made to wait in the street as though she were some lowly courier.

After another minute and a half, the carved oak door finally swings open. Maven herself stands on the other side — that much courtesy, at least, she is expected to afford her Jarl — and Laila’s irritation burns away in a painful flash of desire. She tries to clutch at her anger, hold it to herself to fuel her strength, but as ever it is no good. All it takes is for Maven’s gold-brown eyes to latch on to her own and she is lost. No longer Jarl of the Rift, no longer a self-assured, confident woman in her middle years; she is a puppy between the claws of a sabre cat, and it is almost more than she can manage to keep her chin held high and meet Maven’s gaze.

She will not protest. She will not demand the respect she is owed. She will do exactly as Maven desires. Such has it been, ever since their first meeting, more than a decade hence.

“Maven.”

“Laila. Good, you’re here. I wasn’t expecting you for another hour — I’m glad your plans allowed you to come by sooner. Please, come in.” There is nothing in her voice but diffident courtesy, yet Laila senses the undercurrent of satisfaction. Maven knew Laila would be here on time. She always is.

Maven leads her to the drawing-room. It is even more elegantly decorated than on Laila’s last visit; tasteful imported tapestries now covering every wall, and an enormous rug, also surely imported, plush underfoot. Laila barely notices. All her attention is on Maven’s retreating form. She has dressed demurely in dark blues, as is appropriate for such a meeting; but has chosen a gown made from some kind of unusual, clinging fabric Laila has never seen before which highlights every line of her body despite the severe cut. Laila thinks to ask Maven where she bought it, then immediately forgets as Maven looks back over her shoulder. The fabric twists and bends, and Maven is suddenly more exposed than if she had been wearing nothing at all. A low, hot throbbing builds between Laila’s legs. She swallows.

“Tea, Laila?” Maven holds the pose, her lips curving at Laila’s obvious distraction.

“Yes. Please.” Tea is the last thing Laila wants, but formalities must be observed.

Maven makes the tea herself. It is an oddity, to be sure, but her servants put it down to a particular fondness and respect for her Jarl — Laila, of course, knows it to be quite the opposite. Maven likes to make Laila wait, and likes even more to show off the day’s choice of outfit, and the way her body moves in it as she glides about the kitchen. A bend here, a stretch there, and never a glance at Laila. Maven knows well the effect her performance has. It is all part of the ritual, the sabre cat toying with the puppy, making it clear just whose game this is. Sometimes, Maven will draw the process out to a full excruciating quarter hour, measured with precision on Laila’s imitation-Dwemer timepiece; or even make a show of spilling the tea and having to start over. Laila never objects and she never speaks. Any sign of impatience will only prolong things further.

This time, thankfully, Maven doesn’t seem in the mood, and the tea is ready in the requisite six and a half minutes. Maven takes the tea-tray and Laila follows her down to the basement tea-room. The last few seconds down the spiralling stairs are always agony, and this time is no different: Laila has to work hard to control her breathing, and her arousal is almost painful. As always, her eyes are fixed on Maven’s gently curving backside; prettily outlined by the clinging fabric even in the gloom of the staircase.

Maven stops at the heavy door, and fumbles for a moment at the latch. _Hurry, hurry,_ Laila finds herself groaning inside her head, not even caring that this is precisely why Maven is pretending to struggle. Finally, the door swings open, and it takes enormous restraint to prevent herself from pushing past Maven into the dimly lit room. That’s not how the game is played.

The door clicks shut, and Laila lowers the latch.

There is an immediate and perceptible shift as soon as Laila’s hand leaves the door. She hunts hungrily for Maven’s eyes — without hesitation, this time — and no longer meets the gaze of a sabre cat. She finds instead a housecat; soft and meek and willing.

“Put down the tray,” Laila commands. Sometimes she insists they share the tea — enjoying drawing things out herself, watching Maven grow increasingly taut with barely-contained desire — but this time she does not want to wait. She is aching, dripping, her thighs slick and wet after having removed her smallclothes on a whim before leaving the Keep.

“As you wish, my Jarl.” Maven sets the tea-tray down on the waiting dresser and turns back to Laila. “How may I serve you, my Jarl?”

Those are the only words she may speak in this room without Laila’s permission.

Laila’s eyes move around the room, lingering on the various pieces of furniture. Maven changes them regularly, but all these she has enjoyed before. Finally her gaze rests on the throne-like armchair at the back of the room; chosen, Laila is sure, because of its resemblance to her own throne. It is the only piece of furniture in the room which has never been replaced.

She strides across the carpeted floor and settles herself in the throne. Her back is ramrod-straight, her bearing regal. Maven has followed, and stands before her, hands folded demurely at her front, golden-brown eyes downcast. Laila closes her own.

“Worship me.”

A hint of perfume in the still air, a breathy voice in her ear a moment later. “Yes, my Jarl.” Laila suppresses a shudder, but cannot contain the involuntary gasp. Her grip tightens on the armrests.

She feels her skirts being pushed up past her knees, then a tongue running up her calf. She gasps again. A moment of self-satisfaction at the enthusiastic noise of surprise as Maven discovers her thighs already soaked, and no smallclothes to bar her — then all coherent thought flees as Maven’s tongue finds her and drags deep and long.

“You are a queen, Laila,” comes Maven’s muffled murmur from between her trembling thighs. “You are a goddess.”

And for the next hour, Laila believes her.

* * *

“She’s using you, Mother.”

Laila’s head snaps up and her eyes refocus. She realises her quill has fallen from her grasp, and the sheet of paper in front of her is heavily stained with spreading indigo.

“What?”

“I said, Maven’s using you.” Saerlund stands on the other side of her study, as far away from her as he can manage while still being inside the room. His arms are crossed, and he has the stance of one preparing for combat. An absurd posture for such a timid, bookish boy.

Laila sniffs. “Don’t be ridiculous. Maven is an old and dear friend.”

Pink spots appear high on his cheeks. “A friend, Mother? Please. I’m not a complete simpleton. And while Harrald might be, even he’s starting to talk. _Everyone_ is. It’s becoming more and more obvious; you’re over at her house at least twice a week, you’re neglecting your work, you don’t —”

“That’s enough,” she snaps, her voice tight but controlled. Her eyes flash dangerously. How _dare_ he say such things? This — this boy, this _child_ , barely off her apron-strings. How dare he question his mother — his _Jarl_? “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” Saerlund has uncrossed his arms, instead balling his fists at his side, and takes a few steps forward. “You were at Black-Briar Manor earlier today, weren’t you? Hamvir told me you’d be drawing up the city’s taxation scales for the new year this evening, but by the look of that piece of paper I’d guess your mind has been _elsewhere_ , hasn’t it?” His whole face is red now, and he is trembling in anger. Laila thinks suddenly how like his father he is, then immediately crumples the thought and tosses it away.

“Don’t act as though you know the first thing about running a hold, Saerlund,” Laila begins, but he immediately interrupts.

“Do _you_? Have you even been outside lately?” He stops, shakes his head as though to clear it, then takes a few deep, steadying breaths. “I’m getting off-track. Mother. I don’t care who you bed. Divines know you deserve some happiness, after Father … But Maven Black-Briar, of all people? She’s bad news. I’ve heard all about her business practices in the inn. She’s — she’s _using_ you, Mother! She doesn’t really care about you, she’s just toying with your emotions so that she can get special —”

But he has gone too far. “Enough!” Laila slams the desk with both hands, erupting from her seat in a rush of fury. Her ink bottle goes flying, and Saerlund flinches, but she barely notices. “Not that it’s any of your business, _son_ , but in the eleven years — yes, Saerlund, it really has been that long — in _eleven years_ , in all that time, Maven has never, not _once_ asked me for a favour. Never. You may think me a vapid lovesick fool, but I am more than capable of keeping my personal and professional lives separate, and I will thank you to afford me the respect I am owed as your mother and Jarl!” She realises she is shouting, and has crushed the ink-stained page between her hands.

There is a long silence, her last words ringing against the high stone walls. Saerlund is very white and has backed away against the door.

“I’m — I’m sorry —”

Laila feels a brief twist of guilt. Saerlund is a kind boy. He means well. It isn’t his fault; he is young, and doesn’t understand. She takes a moment to compose herself, closing her eyes and breathing slowly before answering.

“You are forgiven. I understand and value your concern, and I do not want you to think you cannot speak to me of such matters.” She opens her eyes, and holds her son with a steely gaze. “But understand this: you are _wrong_. Maven Black-Briar cannot, and will not, ever compel me to do that which I do not wish to do myself. You are dismissed.”

Saerlund nods, and scurries out the door without another word. Laila sinks back into her seat with a heavy sigh. She reaches for a fresh sheet of paper and bottle of ink. There is work to do.

* * *

The next note from Maven arrives with breakfast a few days later. This time, Laila abandons all pretense, skipping her hateful porridge and hurrying immediately to the manor. The door, the dress, the tea, the stairs … the latch.

Today Maven wears a gown in a foreign style, thin and gauzy and so sheer as to not so much toe the line of propriety as barrel right past it. Laila wanted to tear it from her body as soon as Maven let her heavy, quilted gown fall to the floor in the entrance hall — but she waits. She sips expensive tea from Morrowind and watches Maven finger herself, her nipples pressing through the gauzy fabric, and once the tea is done she bends Maven over the brand new divan and fucks her with another kind of imitation-Dwemer device. This one, Maven had custom made.

Later, they lie side by side on the no-longer-new divan, their hair spilling over the edge in a waterfall of mingled strawberry-blonde and inky black. Laila traces lazy fingertips along Maven’s stomach. Navel to sternum and back again, over and over — it is the only part of Maven which is soft and tender, made yielding by three childbirths. Maven hates it, as she hates anything imperfect; but Laila loves it more than any other part of her lover’s oh-so-familiar body.

Maven’s own fingers are working between Laila’s legs. Laila has already come thrice, but begins to feel that delicious, aching tension mounting again. Her fingers stop their languorous drifting to tighten on Maven’s belly, and she first gasps, then moans, as Maven’s teeth graze her neck.

Maven’s lips continue to drift upwards, until Laila can feel every one of Maven’s soft exhalations against her ear. The tip of a tongue glides from lobe to cartilage, leaving a thin sheen of saliva which tingles almost unbearably the next time Maven breathes in Laila’s ear.

“My Jarl,” Laila hears; a soft, low growl; while one of Maven’s hands twines in her hair and the other moves up to caress her face, leaving a sticky trail which Laila longs for Maven to lick off.

“Yes, kitten,” she gasps. “Yes.” She presses herself to Maven, grinding against her hip. Her eyelids flutter. The aching pulse of desire has once again flared into a burning pyre, and she fumbles underneath tacky skin, trying to find the ruined gossamer gown to bind Maven’s wrists.

“The taxes. I need you to lower them for next year.”

Laila feels as though she’s been dashed with a pail of ice-cold water. She freezes.

_That’s … She’s … That’s against the rules!_

She trembles in place, her mind all but wiped blank. The feverish arousal; Maven saying — no, she _can't_ have, it isn’t _allowed_ , not once in _eleven years_ — it’s all too much. She scrabbles for thoughts, for emotions, for _anything_ , but it’s like clawing at a slippery cliff-face, and then Maven’s hand is between her legs again and all else is forgotten in the renewed rush of desire. She moans, thrusting against eager fingers.

Maven’s other hand is still in her hair, and she tugs, gently but firmly exposing Laila’s pale neck.

“Will you lower them, Laila?” She runs her tongue from collarbone to chin.

Laila flips over, pinning Maven beneath her. Her hands move to Maven’s wrists, her lips crash into Maven’s own, trying to keep the words inside, to send them away, what is Maven _doing_ this isn’t how it goes she’s changing the rules _she’s changing the fucking rules_ — and then the unthinkable happens.

Maven pushes back.

Suddenly Laila is the one on her back, Maven’s bony hips straddling her own; it is Laila’s wrists clasped so tightly they hurt, while Maven’s other hand twists further into her hair and pulls, all tenderness gone.

“The _taxes_ ,” Maven hisses into her ear. “My _mead_.”

A few tears squeeze from Laila’s eyes. “That _hurts_ …” But Maven’s hips are rolling against her own, and she can’t help but rock back. She is confused, and for the first time in this room, frightened; but more than anything else she is more aroused than she can ever remember being in her life.

Maven’s teeth tug at her ear, then move to her neck. Each bite is a little harder, until Maven’s teeth and tongue are a kind of agony-ecstasy against her skin and still she grips Laila’s hair and wrists and the timepiece is a sharp burning brand and — oh fuck, oh _fuck_ — Laila is completely consumed in a fog of pain and desire. Nothing exists but Maven. She would do anything. _Anything_.

A final time, Maven’s growl in her ear. “My _mead_ , Laila.”

“I’ll see — I’ll see what I can do,” Laila gasps, writhing under Maven, her body begging for release. “Please — please —”

“Good girl,” Maven purrs. Laila is instantly freed, and a moment later has her reward: Maven’s hand plunges between them, parting pulsing, swollen lips. She kisses Laila deeply, slowly, approvingly, until Laila breaks the kiss to erupt into first a moan, then a scream; her body thrashing into Maven’s as wave after wave of pleasure crests then breaks against Maven’s self-satisfied smile and sabre cat eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> The power dynamics in Riften have always fascinated me - we have two single, middle-aged women, each wielding very different kinds of power. By 4E201, of course, we know that Maven's brand of power has come out on top; but I like to imagine that it might not always have been the case. This fic is set some years before the events of Skyrim: I thought it could be fun to explore what a delicate balance of power between these two women might look like, as well as the moment which irrevocably shifts the balance in Maven's favour.
> 
> I was intending for there to be a lot less porn and a lot more plot, but, well, here we are.


End file.
